Law and order
by Dr Melancholia
Summary: Two can play this game
1. Chapter 1

A/N: My portrayal of Dr. Crane was closer to Nolanverse's Cillian Murphy. This story is also written mainly in the third person following Crane, and thus the range of vocabulary and technical terms or references used are the terms I think he would think in, rather than just irrelevant purple prose. The string or membrane theory is rather interesting. I recommend reading about it. Feel free to leave a review, even if you didn't like it or think Miss Spencer, my OC is a Mary Sue.

* * *

The wall facing him was beginning to look attractive. Unsurprising, for an asexual misanthrope who had been talked with, no, more accurately, to for about five straight hours. He allowed his thoughts to drift to theory. Time had been established as the fourth dimension under the membrane theory. Pulling apart the strings that governed the fourth dimension in order to get past this would be extremely desirable.

More than the wall anyway.

"Mr. Crane. In your best interests, I would advise you..."

"It's doctor. The fact that I am going to be on trial in a week's time and right now, sitting in this detention cell does not wipe out all the education that I had completed, Miss..."

"You may call me Attorney Spencer."

She shifted in her seat uncomfortably; he smirked. No doubt her posterior was much more accustomed to the leather chairs in her lawyer's office. He, on the other hand, did not waste on such frivolities and instead directed all his funds to his research and chemicals.

What he did was that, research. Not that mindless monstrosity that he was currently being accused of. It simply went against logic for someone to actually use half a canister of fear toxin in the nursery of the hospital, on mere infants. That was nearly a hundred times the fatal dose. Infants proved uninteresting as test subjects. They had not lived long enough to develop severe, deep set phobias that when manifested, produced interesting effects.

"Give me something to work with at least. Are you going to plead guilty or not?" The lawyer spoke up again.

Somehow her tone irritated him. Perhaps it resembled the mild, patronizing tones of the Arkham staff. The very people that he had hired treating him. Jonathan Crane during his stint in Arkham as administrator had hardly noticed that the psychiatrists he had hired were such pompous, condescending and ineffectual individuals. Being treated by them was an ordeal sufficient to last him a lifetime, and now his lawyer. The audacity of it all. If he ever regained his position at Arkham …

"Excuse me? _Doctor _Crane?"

"Oh yes. I'm sorry. You were saying?" He forced a bland smile.

She passed him a sheet of paper. She watched in silent amusement as he held the paper to his face, squinting.

"I take it that they didn't allow you glasses."

"Yes."

Curiosity outweighed her pride and she probed with a second question. "Why?"

"It was … shall I say for my own good, according to Jeremiah Arkham. He suggested that I not be allowed access to anything that was sharp while incarcerated due to certain neurotic tendencies of mine, or anything that could potentially be made sharp."

She looked genuinely amused now. "So, what did you do? Break your glasses and attempt to slice open your jugular vein?"

He set the paper down and gave her a hard look. "What significance, if any, has my suicidal tendencies to proving my innocence?"

"Since you've expressed a preference for a not guilty plea, a lot. Your instability, suicidal tendencies, neuroticism, past records of being repeatedly admitted to Arkham Asylum, possible testimony of your former psychiatrists, I'd say we have a strong case for an insanity plea."

Crane felt the signs, his pulse rate elevating, blood rushing to his head. To bore him, fine. To address him in a manner that belied his level of education, acceptable. She wasn't the first person who'd made that mistake. To remind him of his psychiatrists, bearable. This was what people called defense mechanisms were supposed to deal with. But to question his sanity.

He was the only one sane in this world. Other than him, yes, there were shades of grey, more enlightened individuals such as Carl Jung and Freud. But they, unlike him, had failed to take themselves to a different level. He had been putting up with insane people who thought they were sane for his whole life. Just because the majority did not feel the same way as he did wasn't a valid prerequisite to throw him into the hands of the incompetent. Psychiatrists, doctors, lawyers, the judge and jury he was going to be at the mercy of presently.

"I'm sorry, taking a dig at your mental health like that was very unprofessional. I apologize. However, you must understand that I merely represent you. Ultimately it will depend on how I present it, but the information to begin with is vital."

He didn't like it at all, her apology. It had all the superciliousness of a preschool teacher caving in to a belligerent child. In interests of carrying on a conversation, however, he accepted it with a curt nod.

"You're going to have to tell me if you want to plead guilty or not. Along the lines of guilty, I could factor in your unstable state of mind, your genuine repentance, shown by your extraordinary compliance so far, the fact that your father abandoned you, your mother neglected you and your harrowing tale of abuse at the hands of your great grandmother. That at most could only get you off the death penalty and you would be given life in prison, with or without parole," she said.

"I read your file at Arkham," she explained.

"Not guilty?" he asked.

"Either you were so crazy you couldn't be held responsible for your actions or you really didn't do it and can convince the jury of that."

The guard signalled to the lawyer. "Five minutes please." The guard nodded.

"I will leave you with this sheet of paper. The guards had it approved. What is your degree of myopia, anyway?" she asked.

"About 700. Why?"

She turned to the guard. "Can I leave him my glasses? He can't read without them, and prisoners are allowed to have glasses anyway. You can examine them."

The guard examined it, then handed them back to her. "They're fine."

She placed it on the table beside his hand. "These glasses should fit you well enough to go on. This document states your options. I'd urge you to consider carefully and give me a response tomorrow."

Groping for the door handle, she exited the visiting room clumsily. He suppressed the urge to smile as a crash was heard outside.


	2. Chapter 2

Gender segregation, statistically speaking, had a positive effect in society. Reducing occurrences of sexual offences in toilets, allowing students to concentrate better on their studies than on amorous desires in single gender schools, and debatably, cases of rape in prisons.

Statistics would be of no comfort to you if you were in custody at Gotham Prison and was standing in a communal shower with six other men who were convicted of sex crimes. Added to the fact that you were in a state of undress and was the physically unimpressive, skinny, blue eyed man with high cheekbones and fair complexion by the name of Jonathan Crane.

In that situation you would probably dry and dress yourself as quickly as you could and make a dash for the door, precisely what our good doctor here did. And an hour later, in very high spirits, he was summoned to the visiting cell with the lawyer he couldn't wait to see.

* * *

He couldn't help being a little impatient. Her glasses resting awkwardly on his nose, he had studied the document she had handed him. Based only on preliminary information without having met him, portions of it were nothing that he did not know of. How exactly she proposed to play it in court , if he pleaded guilty, innocent, insanity plea - the latter irked him slightly - standard, ordinary, thorough, nothing lacking, nothing brilliant. A fresh graduate out of law school, promising grades perhaps, the diligence, the modest intelligence - she had worked for it and got it. Then followed the disillusionment faced by so many graduates, he understood it all. First one himself, then a teacher of some, then testifying in the court of a few more. The naive idealists. The ones who would realise just as soon that a cop in Gotham would take a bribe from a thief or a murderer, a professor of psychology could stand in the dock and declare dangerous criminals insane and thus not responsible for the crimes that they had committed. Rachel Dawes had hated him for that. If only she had known what the obnoxious but harmless looking Dr. Crane had in store for them, she might not have hated him.

Prison was not a suitable environment for their rehabilitation. In Arkham, they had access to treatment appropriate for scum like them.

When he looked up, she was seated and ready for him.

"You have made up your mind then?" she asked, continuing uninterrupted from the last session.

"I will plead not guilty. I am innocent, and sane enough to be held responsible for my actions," he said decidedly. "Your case file was quite meticulously done." If he couldn't have his fear toxin and access to his patients, he would play with this one instead. It would be gratifying enough to see her react in the way he meant to. And so it was satisfying to see her blush slightly and smile. The shy modest pupil and the compliments of the professor. Even so, he missed his toxin and laboratory and the most interesting patients with the most interesting fears. He had kept his impassive mask and emotionless composure for so long here that he had forgotten the pure joy of experimenting and the_ fun _of it all.

"From there on there could be an alibi, character reference or you could pin it on someone else. For the second, could you give me a name?"

A name. The name of someone who would be willing to give a character reference for Jonathan Crane, the man who had abused his position as a psychiatrist to conduct experiments on his patients with a fear inducing hallucinogen fatal in large doses.

"Thomas Schiff or Jeremiah Arkham."

"Who's the first? Would he be a credible source to the court?" she asked doubtfully.

"No. Jeremiah Arkham would suffice then. He was my superior and could tell you all about me." He gave a faintly ironic smile at that.

"I wouldn't want to know all about you, I'm sure. Would you like me to see him or would you prefer to send for him?" she asked.

Send for Jeremiah Arkham to see him in this pathetic state, in prison, where the man always felt he belonged?

"I'd rather not see him."

She acknowledged it, then rose from her seat. "I'll see you next week then."


End file.
